


Brother Will You Be My Shelter

by April_Valentine



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 07:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16035677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: Just another take on Rick and Daryl's reunion after Daryl's escape from the Sanctuary. This takes place at the Hilltop later that same day. In this universe, there is no Richonne relationship.





	Brother Will You Be My Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> I got to thinking about how Rick had been suffering too, with everything that Negan did to him. I wanted Daryl, who of course has been hurt physically and mentally to notice Rick's pain and want to help him, the way he's dedicated his life to helping Rick since the beginning. And then I saw a Rickyl video to "Brother" by NEEDTOBREATHE on YouTube.

Being outside was strange. Being with his family was stranger still. He had to keep reminding himself that he was at the Hilltop, that he wasn’t dreaming. That he was really hearing conversation that wasn’t whispered, furtive. People acting like they weren’t afraid. It was weird, stuff he thought he’d never witness again.

Because Daryl had thought he’d spend the rest of his life in that dank, windowless room. That empty cell with only his grief and guilt and pain for company.

Even now, the thought caused an involuntary shudder to run through his body. He glanced around, hoping nobody had noticed. Luckily, they were all talking to each other, nobody paying much attention to him.

“You okay?”

The soft words coming from behind him made Daryl flinch. Rick wasn’t ignoring him, wasn’t preoccupied with conversation. He was focused on Daryl, like he’d been when Negan had gone to Alexandria and taken Daryl along, when they hadn’t been able to talk. When all Daryl could do was blink at Rick, trying to tell him to hang on with rusty Morse code he wasn’t even sure the man picked up on. 

“I’m sorry.” Rick moved closer, but he knew better than to touch Daryl. 

Daryl shook the hair out of his eyes long enough to meet Rick’s gaze. It was the least he could do. “’M fine.”

Rick nodded, going along with the lie. “I know. Me too.”

“Bullshit,” Daryl muttered mildly. Neither of them was all right. Maybe none of their family would ever be all right again. But he was out. He was free. And he was here with his people, sitting around the big room at Hilltop with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. So what if he jumped at the slightest sound, couldn’t eat the food he’d been offered despite not having had a decent meal in weeks, couldn’t meet Maggie’s eyes? Or Rosita’s. 

Jesus had tried to get him to talk. He was _there for him_ he’d told Daryl. Sure, the guy was okay, had been handy as Daryl made his escape but a little part of Daryl couldn’t help thinking that if they’d never met Jesus on that run that day, they wouldn’t be as deep in the shit they were in now. Maybe they wouldn’t have run across the Saviors at all.

Daryl knew that was stupid, that they’d’ve encountered them eventually. But a part of him wanted everything that had happened since the day Jesus had crossed their path to be reset. Alexandria wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the road.

Sasha had known better. She’d kept her fight with her own demons to herself and understood why it was better to not talk about shit that went down. She’d simply brought him some clean clothes and showed him where the showers were. He was grateful but he felt guilty about Abe too, wondering why he was alive and the big soldier wasn’t. Why it had been Glenn who Negan had taken out next instead of him. 

He couldn’t look at Rick then, turning aside while he fought the tears burning his eyes. 

Shoulda been stronger for Rick too, dammit. He knew heavy shit had gone down for his leader, for the man Daryl admired most, cared most deeply about in this world. He’d missed a lot of it, but it had haunted Rick’s eyes that day in Alexandria. Made him meek, following that brutal S.O.B. around, carrying the instrument that had killed his friends… 

That had scared Daryl more than anything that had been done to him personally – seeing Rick shattered that way. He had believed that nothing could break the man. He’d lost his mind when his wife died, sure, but being crazy wasn’t the same as being crushed psychologically. 

Rick had fought his way through so many obstacles for so long, but being manipulated and tortured mentally by Negan had left its mark on him. Daryl had been told how he’d nearly been forced to cut his son’s arm off, how he’d been in tears as he still knelt on the ground and he’d seen for himself how cowed Rick had been that day.

Daryl knew if he’d only managed to keep himself in check, stayed down on his knees like the others, take what was happening, what was being said, the taunting, the threats, the murders, he’d’ve been there for Rick and maybe… maybe could have helped him.

Nobody would ever know what had gone on when Negan took Rick into that RV… but he had come out a shell of the man he’d once been.

And even now, with new resolve to fight back lending him strength, Rick still looked a little lost, a little shell shocked. Daryl could see it in his eyes, in the trembling of his hands; even though he stuck them in his pockets, he couldn’t hide from Daryl’s keen gaze.

He’d felt it in the way Rick wrapped his arms around him and held on tight and sobbed with Daryl as they hugged that afternoon when they’d been reunited. And the look he’d given Daryl when he’d been presented with his gun – the Colt Python _defined_ Rick. It had been with him since the time before. Valued, valuable, something he owned and deserved. Used to kill walkers and dangerous men. It had sat at his hip for so long he looked off without it there. Giving it back to him had meant the world to Daryl.

He only wished he could do more. 

For so long, it had been Daryl’s job to provide what Rick needed. Food, shelter, back up. Feeding his baby. Fending off walkers. Agreeing to his plans. Even if everyone else thought they wouldn’t work, Daryl was the one who agreed with Rick, believed in Rick, stood by Rick.

And he hadn’t been there for Rick in the aftermath.

 _He wasn’t alone. He had Michonne. Carl. Judith. The others._

That knowledge had comforted Daryl, alone in that cell so far away. 

He could take whatever Negan dished out. Whatever he put Daryl through, Daryl had had worse. Beatings? Starvation? Just another day for a man with his history. Kept in a closet, in the dark? Been there, done that. Dog food sandwiches? When he and the others had eaten actual dog meat they’d cooked themselves on the road? When those vile sandwiches had been more than the boy who’d survived alone in the woods for nine days had? 

And as he’d told Dwight, he was doing it for someone else. He was holding on. Resisting. Sure, it had been hard. Harder in some ways than anything else Daryl had ever faced. Naked and starved, filthy and cold, unable to sleep with that fucking music blaring, shown that Polaroid of Glenn… 

Unbidden, the image flashed in Daryl’s mind. He squeezed his eyes shut as if he could make the picture go away. Cold again, even dressed and in a room with a welcoming fire, he shivered. 

Rick moved closer. His hand lifted, then dropped uselessly to his side. 

A part of Daryl recoiled from the aborted contact. The rest of him hated denying Rick the ability to comfort him.

He ached with the need to do something to take the look of hurt from Rick’s eyes. He burned with bitter loneliness.

Almost without thinking, Daryl reached out his hand, found Rick’s and gripped it tight. 

It was a move so uncharacteristic of him, yet the touch immediately caused Rick’s expression to soften, his tense body to relax. 

“I’m okay,” Daryl rasped. A shrug. “Gonna be, at least.”

Rick didn’t say anything. He just looked at their clasped hands, then raised his eyes to Daryl’s. 

“Missed you.” Rick’s whisper was faint, tinged with remorse. 

Daryl couldn’t answer. He had missed Rick too, missed him like he would have missed his right arm, like the way he missed Merle, his motorcycle, his vest. 

But a thousand times more. 

It was hard to keep a line of thought in his head, he realized. He wanted to know that Rick was okay, what he was thinking, what his plans were, what had caused him to come to Hilltop with the resolve to fight back. And yet, Daryl kept falling into that pool of despair that he’d been drowning in as Negan’s prisoner. 

And Rick saw it all. 

“Hey,” Rick said then, his voice still low. “Wanta get out of here? You look exhausted. There’s bedrooms upstairs.”

Daryl could use some rest. He wanted to sleep. To try to, at least. As long as he didn’t have to be alone. 

He glanced toward the staircase. It looked impossibly long and lonely. In his mind, it would be cold up there, full of ghosts.

Rick must have seen the hesitation in Daryl’s eyes, sensed his trepidation.

“I’ll go with you,” he offered, his voice gentle. Rick rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s been a pretty eventful day. I could use some rest myself.”

Daryl swallowed hard, accepting Rick’s offer with a brief nod. He stood and Rick moved even closer. Daryl felt the man’s hand at the small of his back, guiding him.

They didn’t bother making their excuses to the rest of the group. Instead, they just headed toward the stairs.

Rick took the lead, glancing in the various rooms, continuing down the hall until he reached the last door. Apparently satisfied with what he found inside, he pushed the door open and nodded toward Daryl, his hand once again careful on Daryl’s back. 

Daryl crossed the threshold. This was somebody’s room; there were a few possessions on the bedside table, on top of the dresser, but he and Rick made themselves at home. Rick pulled the light curtains closed, shutting out the late afternoon sun, plunging the room into comforting shadows.

He undid his gun belt and draped it over the wooden chair at the desk, unsnapping his outer shirt and letting it slide from his shoulders. Rick dropped to the bed, clad in his white t-shirt and jeans and yanked off his boots, only glancing up to find Daryl still hesitating by the door when he was finished. 

“It’s okay,” Rick said. “We’ll take a nap. Nobody’ll mind.”

Daryl nodded once and proceeded to kick off his own boots, to drop his knife and gun on the dresser, but he kept the rest of his clothing on, needing it to shield himself, to fight off the flashes of his own bare, filthy flesh lying on unforgiving concrete that he couldn’t seem to stop having.

“C’mon,” Rick said, his voice bringing Daryl back to the here and now. Rick had shifted to the far side of the bed and was stretched out, patting the space beside him.

Feeling awkward and undeserving, Daryl sank onto the mattress, managing not to flinch when Rick’s hands helped him recline next to him. The bed was soft, clean smelling, the room was warm. Daryl’s eyes felt the sting of his emotions: he was out, he was free, he was with Rick… _never thought I’d see you again…_

“Hey…” Rick’s voice, calm and entirely without judgment, and close, so close to Daryl he had to squeeze his eyes shut, fight the emotions, push them down. 

_Can’t do this. Can’t look weak to Rick. Bad enough in the courtyard in fronta everybody…_

“Shhhh.” Now Rick’s breath was grazing Daryl’s ear, Rick was wrapped around him, holding him, helping him fight the feelings of loss and hope and guilt and grief, the strength of Rick’s arms telling him he was home, he was safe.

Rick’s fingers threaded into Daryl’s hair, slowly combing through the tangled length, soothing him, so patient, so utterly accepting. The shame battered Daryl, kept him from being able to meet Rick’s eyes. 

“It’s okay,” Rick was whispering. “Whatever happened, whatever he did to you, whatever you did… it’s over now.”

Daryl wanted to contradict him, telling him it would never be over. His father’s abuse, so distant now and incomparable to what they’d endured in their new world, the losses of those they’d loved, the depths to which they’d sunk – those things would never be _over_. They’d only be in the past, but if there was one thing Daryl knew, they were changed men now, they couldn’t pretend those things had never happened.

Both of them were raw from them, from the meanness, from the abuse, from being forced to their knees both figuratively and for real. Daryl had the scars on his back his father had put there, and now both he and Rick had the scars Negan had put in their hearts and their minds. 

He didn’t want to talk about it, but he suddenly had one very important thing to say, something he had to tell Rick, had to be sure Rick knew.

 _Whatever you did…_ Rick had said, trying to soothe Daryl, to forgive him. He’d first thought Rick had meant what Daryl did that horrible night, but now it seemed more than Rick was implying that whatever Daryl had done while prisoner was something that was now over.

How he must have looked to Rick, that day when they’d brought him along to Alexandria. He’d been dressed in those ill-fitting clothes, his head hanging, following Negan’s orders, helping to steal from his own family, unable to speak or meet Rick’s eyes until he was in the back of that truck and it was taking him away again. He’d tried to tell Rick then, but he knew now his message, disjointed as it was, hadn’t gotten through.

“It was…” Daryl started, his voice rusty from disuse, thick with anguish. He cleared his throat and tried to start again. “It was…bad,” he finally admitted, unable to speak in detail, to recount the horrors he’d endured, despite his need to make Rick understand, “but I took it… he never knew I’d come from shit and he couldn’t hurt me more’n my daddy ever did.”

“I know,” Rick’s voice grew shaky, tender, his hand stroking through Daryl’s hair over and over.

“Ya gotta know, Rick,” Daryl said urgently, his hands clutching at Rick’s t-shirt, wanting to meet the other man’s eyes, to convey the truth that he couldn’t put into words, “he didn’t… he tried ta make me say I was ‘Negan,’” – and his stomach clenched just uttering the vile man’s name even now – “that’s what he wanted, to make me say it, but I wouldn’t, wouldn’t never… he coulda kept me there for years and I never woulda done that.”

“Daryl,” Rick’s voice cracked and his arms pulled Daryl to him, breath coming in shaky gasps. “You… oh, damn… you’re so strong… he didn’t break you…” There was awe and affirmation both in Rick’s voice, admiration and something else Daryl couldn’t quite define. Then, Rick’s arms relaxed their hold on him, and Rick was turning away, hands covering his own face in shame. “He broke me,” he admitted wearily, “he did. I would have done almost anything he asked by the end of that night. And when they came and took everything… even the damn mattresses and half our food and all our guns… and I carried that _thing_ for him, like a dog he was ordering around…” Rick’s voice trailed off, he was shaking, knees drawn up, body clenched into a spasm of pain and disgrace.

“Rick,” Daryl gasped, unable to let Rick do this to himself without responding. He gripped Rick’s shoulder, attempted to pull him close, to absolve the man for the sins he was recounting.

“I had it coming,” Rick said bleakly, “I was too sure of myself, too smart,” the word coming out like the crudest of insults, “too damned full of myself to think anyone could ever take what we have here. I went in with guns blazing, killing everybody in that place like I was God himself, and he had every right to…”

“No!” Daryl almost yelled the word, his hand gripping Rick’s shoulder, shaking the man, imploring him to stop. “No, it’s not like that and you fuckin’ well know it.” For a moment, the only sound in the room was Rick’s shaky breathing. 

It was Daryl’s turn then to pull Rick close to him, to cradle him in his arms, to let his own pain go in the face of Rick’s humiliation and the need he’d never admit to anyone else. 

“You aren’t the bad guy here,” Daryl husked, lips close to Rick’s ear, his volume low but emphatic nonetheless. “We didn’t know how big they were, how many of them. We didn’t know the depths they could sink to.” He flashed briefly on their conversation in the aftermath of Joe and his men’s attack on Rick, Carl and Michonne that night before they’d reached Terminus, when Daryl had tried to explain that he hadn’t known what those men were capable of. But they’d won, Rick’s brutal biting out of Joe’s throat turning the night in their favor, letting them win and get away with their lives and their honor against all odds. And then they’d faced Terminus, the false promise of safety it had offered made all the more shattering when the evil of its residents had been revealed – and yet they had won the day, once again saving themselves. Was it any wonder that Rick Grimes had expected the Saviors to be just another stumbling block, evil yes, but not unconquerable?

“The Hilltop asked us to help them,” Daryl said finally, his voice firm with resolve, “and you tried to help. Maybe they really didn’t know any more than we did, didn’t know how big they were, how well armed, and how sick _he_ is. It’s not like we could send up spy planes and see all their locations, not like we had anyone really giving us all the information we needed. They used us, these people right here in this community. It’s not all your fault, Rick.”

In Daryl’s arms, Rick shuddered and gasped. 

“It’s not,” Daryl repeated, softer this time. How badly Rick had been blaming himself was clear to him now. How really broken he had been by that night. It was one thing for Daryl to be forced to his knees by a madman, and quite another for a man like Rick. Rick had his pride but he also had been the voice of reason for all of them, the man to reassure them they would survive, that they’d find food and shelter and put the world back together again someday. That he’d solve their problems, that he’d make things right. Everyone had looked to him and Rick, the man who’d killed his best friend to save their group, the man who had defied all logic to lead them to Alexandria, the man who had never given up, had lost the most important battle of his life. Seeing Rick like this was something Daryl could barely wrap his head around and now, when his own resources were severely depleted, he didn’t know what he could do to help Rick.

He only knew that he had to. 

“I’m here now,” he said, his own voice trembling as he tugged Rick’s unresisting body even closer. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Rick groaned, his voice breaking as if in physical pain, his head pressed against Daryl’s chest. 

“I won’t let you down again,” Daryl whispered into Rick’s disheveled curls. “I’m here. I believe in you, Rick.”

Rick’s hand reached and settled on Daryl’s shoulder, tightening, his grip desperate, bruising.

But to Daryl, it didn’t matter. He knew Rick would never break down like this in front of the others. That only Daryl himself would be permitted to see his shame and weakness. The realization filled Daryl with wonder, pushing his own pain aside as he realized that Rick still trusted and needed him and was letting Daryl do this for him now. 

They’d seen each other at their best and at their worst. At their highest and lowest. 

Daryl couldn’t believe that after everything, they still had this bond, this reciprocal need for each other. All the places where his soul had been wounded seemed to fill with warmth, all the sadness pushed aside with the recognition that he was still the man Rick could rely on. 

The overwhelming emotion had to find somewhere to go. Daryl’s heart felt so full he could hardly breathe and he didn’t know what to do, how to feel, what to say.

Story of his life, he realized. He’d never been a talker, never known how to have friends before all this had happened in the world. He’d had nothing but his brother and no direction, no plans, no one to do for.

At Rick’s side, he’d found it all, a reason to wake up in the morning, a reason to track and to hunt, people who needed what he could provide, but when they’d thanked him, he’d shied away, embarrassed and awkward. 

The few who knew him best had teased him. Carol, at the prison, Michonne out on the road, Beth… But Rick, Rick had never teased. He’d only looked at Daryl the way he did that early morning by the side of the road, when they’d both leaned against a broken down car, both of them bloody from the fight of the night before and Rick had called him brother. 

Unconsciously, his arms tightened around Rick’s shoulders and an involuntary moan escaped his lips.

Rick pulled back immediately, worry in his gaze when he met Daryl’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Rick murmured, looking abashed. “You’re hurtin’ – “ He made to pull away.

“No,” Daryl denied, tightening his grip on the man he was holding, “’m okay.” He faltered, wanting to say so much more, but there were no words, he didn’t even understand himself what he was feeling. Yes, his body was aching from the beatings, from the healing gunshot wound, his stomach tight and empty, his head throbbing, but his heart was beating, strong and in time with Rick’s, Rick’s breath against his chest was like balm to his soul, water to wash away the dirt he’d slept in, warmth to banish the cold in his heart.

Rick looked up at him then, his eyes damp pools of blue, reading everything that was in Daryl’s heart, and sharing his own in the process. 

Rick’s tongue darted out to moisten his full lower lip and he blinked, then looked even more resolutely into Daryl’s eyes.

“I’ve called you my brother,” Rick said, his voice soft, Southern twang never more evident, “but it’s more than that. You’re… everything, Daryl.”

As if the words were too much, too true, Rick leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. “Fraid I’d lost you. Him takin’ everything else… none of that mattered near as much as him takin’ you.”

Daryl wanted to scoff – Rick had so much more to lose, his son, the baby… but he couldn’t deny the way Rick said those words to him. 

“Shoulda come for you. Fought him for you,” Rick’s voice trembled again and Daryl felt the man starting to spiral into shame and self doubt again. 

“Don’t think like that,” he said quickly. “Had enough on yer hands. Sorry I didn’t get m’self outta there sooner s’all.”

Rick chuckled then, moving to press his cheek against Daryl’s. “You would say that,” he sighed fondly. 

“Don’ matter anyhow,” Daryl went on, pleased he had brought a smile to Rick’s lips however briefly. “Startin’ over now, right?”

Rick lifted his head, once again meeting Daryl’s gaze. Their eyes locked, held, all the unspoken promises they had made to each other shining there between them, all the vows that needed no words.

 _Starting over…_ Daryl thought. How could you re-start something that had not yet been. In his dreams they had been this close, him and Rick. In his fantasies, they touched and held and moved together until the lines between their bodies blurred, until they were truly one.

In reality, though they could read each others’ thoughts, anticipate each others’ moves, they were still separate, apart. Two men who held each other at arms length, despite their bond, despite Rick’s assertion that they were brothers, and Daryl’s that Rick was family too. 

He’d thought of more. He’d dreamed of it. 

But Daryl Dixon never asked, never assumed. They lived in a world where safety was fleeting, where hunger dogged their steps, where danger lurked in every moment, day and night, week in and week out. A world without leisure, without happiness. Without joy or pleasure. 

This world had given Daryl more than he’d ever hoped to have before the turn. Who was he to want more? 

He’d never hoped to have a family that cared about him, that needed him and that he was glad to provide for.

But he had that now.

He’d never imagine having one person who meant the world to him, whose presence grounded him, made him feel right, made him feel he belonged. Who was the one Daryl wanted to see first thing every morning, and the last he saw before he closed his eyes at night.

And Rick was that to him. The only person he could imagine being close to like they were now. Rick looked to him to back him up. Rick, who carried the burden of leadership and leaned on Daryl, turned to him to see agreement, back up, solidarity.

Daryl had always been a loner. Even when Merle was alive, Daryl didn’t have someone he could trust as much as Rick. Never thought he wanted that. Trust could get you hurt, get you punished. In this world, it could get you killed. 

But in Rick, Daryl trusted. 

Those blue eyes were looking deep into Daryl’s own right now, making time stop as they read Daryl’s secrets, Daryl’s dreams. 

He knew his heart was in his gaze. He’d nearly lost everything. He’d come home wounded, and Rick had eased his pain. Rick had shown him his own fears, left himself vulnerable before him. That trust was a gift Daryl would cherish for the rest of his days.

They were going to go to war. Tomorrow could be their last. 

Daryl’s heart was beating fast, breaking or hoping, he wasn’t sure.

Rick’s gaze was tender, fond, treasuring Daryl as they lay close on the bed, bodies touching shoulder to hip. 

“You’re everything,” Rick said again, soft and low, the “i” becoming an “a” in his Georgia drawl, a sound Daryl had come to love a long time ago.

Daryl’s throat was so dry he could barely speak. But he had to.

“You’re mine,” was what he whispered, nearly abashed at his own boldness. _My everything._

But as he looked into Rick’s eyes, he found nothing but acceptance, nothing but purity, nothing but feeling as strong as his own.

“Daryl?” Rick gasped, part question, part hope. 

Daryl had never had fewer answers, but he was looking into Rick’s eyes, into Rick’s heart and all the hope he thought he’d forgotten was right there, open and being handed to him. 

“Rick,” he answered, every dream he’d ever had right there in his voice.

Rick hesitated only a moment longer, then he bought his lips down on Daryl’s, gently, so gently, as if even then he was loathe to hurt, to take advantage, to assume.

Daryl hadn’t been kissed often in his life, and not at all since the dead started walking, hadn’t much wanted to.

But this he wanted. This he craved. 

His own lips opened, accepting and deepening Rick’s kiss, arms suddenly reaching to wrap Rick close, an echo of their hug out in the courtyard. 

Rick’s lean form molded to his, alive and real. Not a dream, Daryl told himself. This could be his one chance to make it come true. 

Rick kissed him sweetly, patient and sure. Daryl wanted everything but he knew they were both tired, physically worn down, hurting and beaten, bodies and minds. But even as their emotions had soared and plummeted here, so their bodies moved and shuddered, trembling against each other, awakening as if from a nightmare, need stronger than hardship, love greater than fear. 

Rick seemed to sense the same thing. He broke the kiss, gasping a little and met Daryl’s gaze, now shy instead of forward.

“I… I wanta… “ he stammered. “But… you’re hurt… “

“Been hurt before. Will be again,” Daryl answered. “Wanta feel good, Rick. Just once…”

And Rick was kissing him again then, one hand stroking from Daryl’s cheek to his jaw, fingers soft and careful, descending to Daryl’s chest, soothing, waking nerve endings that had too long cringed tight in fear. 

Rick’s fingers hovered over the buttons of Daryl’s borrowed black shirt. “Okay?” he checked, and at Daryl’s eager nod, began opening them, one by one, baring Daryl’s chest to his gaze and to his touch. 

Daryl had been afraid for Rick to see, but now he let him look. Rick’s gaze was healing, his touch feather light. He pushed the shirt open, inspecting the bullet wound on Daryl’s shoulder, eyes acknowledging the pain he knew it had caused. 

“I’d thought, when they had us surrounded, made us kneel in that circle, at least you weren’t there,” Rick whispered, voice cracking with emotion, “and then they dragged you out of that truck. I saw the blood…” 

“Doctor fixed it up,” Daryl said to ease Rick’s mind. Why they’d treated the gunshot at the same time they’d been beating and starving him, he’d never understand. 

Rick only nodded, his eyes wandering further down Daryl’s body. “So many bruises.” His fingers fluttered over the dark spots, some still purple, others faded to yellow. 

“Ain’t the first time,” Daryl said. He didn’t want to talk about bruises or blood. He’d been bruised before and would be again. To distract Rick, he grasped the hem of the man’s t-shirt and tugged upward. Rick helped, pulling it off over his head and tossing it aside. 

Daryl’s fingers skimmed the fine skin of Rick’s shoulders and chest, down the ribs he could easily count. “Too damn skinny,” he told him. 

Rick had scars – the bullet that had put him in the coma had left its mark, pale lines that marred his perfect torso, and there were others, his hands had been cut and scarred over and over, his face had lines from the fights he’d won and lost. But he was beautiful to Daryl, even more than that white shirt clad cowboy that he’d thrown dead squirrels at the first time they’d met.

Rick wouldn’t eat if anyone else was hungry. Rick carried the weight of the world and under the Saviors, there’d been little food to go around. Daryl would have to make sure he got enough into Rick so he’d have strength for the coming battles.

Now, he looked his fill, fingers skimming the tanned flesh, noting the fine hair dusting Rick’s chest, the nipples that peaked under Daryl’s touch. Emboldened, Daryl rubbed one, feeling it harden, loving Rick’s gasp of surprise.

They kissed again, languidly, in no hurry, passion just beneath the surface of wonder and discovery. They were awkward, Rick mindful of Daryl’s injuries, Daryl unpracticed yet eager. Their chests brushed together, warm and smooth, supple and moving, sweat breaking out, letting them slide and caress each other, building the flames.

Rick’s tongue teased at Daryl’s lips and Daryl let him in, needing him closer, needing to taste. His skin was tingling, lips on fire, little jolts of electricity sparking down his spine and into his groin. Rick leaned closer and Daryl could feel he was hard against him.

He had to touch, to give. His fingers fumbled at Rick’s belt while they kissed and Daryl got it undone, got his zipper down. Rick groaned and took over, shoving his pants open and past his hips, his cock springing free and into Daryl’s welcoming grip. 

“Thought you wore boxers,” Daryl panted against Rick’s lips.

“Saviors took ‘em,” Rick explained, somehow making that sound like something to laugh about. 

“Sasha made sure t’bring me some,” Daryl told him, “when she brought me these clothes and showed me where the showers were after I got here.” He knew Rick knew he’d more often than not gone commando – he’d hardly bothered with such niceties in the old world and now, having underwear was last on the list when you needed food, water and medicine. Daryl had been more likely to hunt for cigarettes than drawers, and now he felt half embarrassed to know that of the two of them, he wasn’t naked underneath his jeans. 

“C’n I see?” Rick asked, suddenly diffident, his eyes tracking down Daryl’s body to his belt. 

Words failing him, Daryl’s answer was to stroke the long hardness in his hand. 

Rick groaned, his eyes falling shut, body shuddering under Daryl’s touch. Daryl couldn’t help doing it again, fingers encircling the girth, appreciating the length he’d always suspected Rick had been packing.

Rick shifted up a bit so he could get at Daryl’s belt, unfastening it deftly, moving the jeans and cotton briefs beneath down and out of his way. 

Daryl blushed when Rick took him out. He wasn’t hard yet, not like Rick, didn’t want him to think he wasn’t into what they’d been doing. 

But Rick looked at him like he was something precious, something beautiful. 

“Let me make you feel good,” Rick whispered. He met Daryl’s eyes as he shifted lower on the bed, bringing his head parallel with Daryl’s groin.

Rick wasn’t abrupt, didn’t move fast. He simply pressed his cheek against the damp skin that he’d bared, inhaling Daryl’s scent, fingers just holding, letting Daryl get comfortable with the touch, waiting moments before he stroked him for the first time. 

Daryl gasped out silently, the electricity pooling in his gut. 

“That’s it,” Rick said, his voice breathy, patient. “Just feel, Daryl. Feel good.”

He stroked Daryl’s length again, from base to tip, then again, over and over. Daryl started leaking pre-come and when Rick palmed the head of his cock, then used the wetness to ease the way, tightening his grip infinitesimally, Daryl’s hips lifted from the mattress as pleasure shot through his battered body. 

Daryl couldn’t reach Rick’s cock now, didn’t know what to do with his hands, how to reciprocate. Rick didn’t seem to mind, he was preoccupied with handling Daryl, bringing him to hardness, urging him with fingers and words. 

“That’s it… you can do it… gonna make the pain go away for you… “ 

And then, when Daryl was already soaring under Rick’s touch, he felt the man shift, felt that full lower lip trail over him, down from head to root, then Rick’s tongue tasting on the return journey and when Daryl didn’t think anything could feel better than that, Rick’s mouth opening to take him in. 

Nobody had ever sucked Daryl before. The few sexual encounters he’d had were impersonal, brief, without kissing or oral given or received. There’d been women he’d paid, guys he’d bought drinks for, nobody he’d ever wanted to see again, eyes he hadn’t been able to meet even during those rare moments when he’d attempted to sate his body’s hunger and ended up feeling only emptiness. 

Yet now he was being sucked, and Daryl’s legs dropped open, hips bucking upwards, the sensation blinding, the suction of Rick’s mouth – hot, wet, hungry -- the pleasure replacing his reluctance, lifelong reticence forgotten, trust reinventing him. His hands came up, fingers sinking in Rick’s curls, urging him on.

He began soaring above himself, far above the anguish and suffering that had seemed like all he’d ever know, into a new world that was fresh and bright and beautiful. He’d heard that people floated like this, out of their bodies, when they were nearing death, but Daryl knew this was the farthest thing from dying. He didn’t think he’d ever lived like this before, every nerve alive and singing, muscles taut as the string of his crossbow, his life ready to fly out of him with the speed of one of his bolts, yet hovering, spinning, waiting, ready, ready, higher, higher… 

And then he was coming, pouring down Rick’s throat, his body free and light, winking out of existence and back again, unfettered but not alone, Rick holding him through it, caressing his hips and sides, mouth drinking all Daryl had to give. 

He collapsed against the mattress, panting and spent, having just enough awareness to think about Rick. He tugged the man upward, needing his lips against his own, needing to feel Rick on top of him. Rick groaned in reaction, his hot length grinding against Daryl’s groin and Daryl wedged his hand between them to help Rick, loving the feel of the man’s steely hardness, of the pulse of his gathering orgasm, of Rick’s shuddering release and the heat of it spreading between them. 

They held each other for a long, sweet time, until the warmth felt sticky and cold, until Daryl’s aching body protested Rick’s weight and they reluctantly drew apart. 

Rick looked down at him, rumpled and beautiful, the lines in his face smoothed out like his cares had been washed away, his gaze full of new-found peace. 

They stared into each others’ eyes for long moments and Daryl felt renewed hope, knowing that they were here for each other.

They were brothers. Rick was his shelter; he was Rick’s fortress. When one called, the other was there. When one was lost, the other would bring him home. When one was low, the other would answer his call. 

Rick used his t-shirt to wipe away the evidence of their loving, then tossed it to the floor next to his boots. He helped Daryl tug his jeans back into place and pulled his own back up. Neither of them cared to fasten or zip or buckle back up. Not now, not for a while.

Rick lay back against the mattress, opening his arms. Daryl settled into them, his head on Rick’s shoulder. His mind was still, quiet, no longer plagued with guilt and remorse. Rick heaved a deep sigh, rubbing his check against Daryl’s hair, fingers skimming over Daryl’s chest and lifting his chin.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Mmnn.” Daryl had no words, and he knew Rick understood anyway. “You?”

“So much better.” Rick sighed, bending to kiss Daryl one more time. 

They were loose, languid, closer than ever before. In a world of terror, they had beaten the odds. They had each other.

Daryl wrapped one hand around Rick’s waist and in the fading light of the day, they drifted into sleep together.

 

 

“And when you call and need me near  
Sayin' where'd you go?  
Brother, I'm right here  
And on those days when the sky begins to fall  
You're the blood of my blood  
We can get through it all”

~ Bear Rinehart; Bo Rineheart. “Brother” by NEEDTOBREATHE

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't forgotten or abandoned my WIPs and I still love Rickyl. I will to the end. I will even after. I want to keep their love alive, in AUs and filling the time jumps the show has given us where we can portray their relationship as all it should have been on screen. 
> 
> I had eye surgery a couple of weeks ago for a detached retina and am not seeing perfectly so if you notice some typos, let me know and I'll correct them.


End file.
